all this delusion in our heads
by ChasingPerfectionTomorrow
Summary: Owen Grady thinks he has Claire Dearing all figured out. (Shameless angst and fluff and smut)


**AN:** This follows the events in the movie as well as a little before and beyond. Think of it as snapshots between the scenes in the movie, for the most part.

* * *

The first time Owen sees her, he thinks he has her all figured out.

He watches her from beneath the shade of an awning as her assistant hands her a pristine white shirt to replace the suit jacket she's wearing. Something lighter. Something she doesn't mind getting dirty.

It's hotter than the devil's asshole and sweat is dripping down his back and the sides of his face in waves. It reminds him of his stint in Kuwait in the worst possible way.

He catches a flash of beige undershirt and white bra straps with smooth pale skin beneath before white silk slides into place. It makes the hair on his arms standup in a way he doesn't appreciate, in a way that makes him feel edgy.

Her assistant, a pretty brunette who is clearly talking a mile a minute, smooths down the perfect red curtain of her bosses hair as she flips down the mirror and applies a layer of lipstick onto plush lips. His mind could take those lips to places it shouldn't. Places where she'd get dirt on her knees and where his hands would fist in carefully controlled strands.

What the hell is wrong with him?

He shakes his head and takes a breath. It had clearly been too long since his last run in with an attractive woman. And this isn't the kind of woman he wants to mess with. Her technically being his boss not the least of it.

A moment later, designer sunglasses are slipped over a petite nose and the door opens for a pair of impractical black heels and the curve of slim claves.

Owen knows all about girls like Claire Dearing.

The sway of her hips tells him that she clearly comes from money and is used to getting her way. The lift of her chin and the posture of her shoulders tells him that she is uptight, a career girl who has been competing with men all her life to earn a fraction of the respect and that she likes things precisely the way she wants them. Something that probably extends to whatever men she allows beyond her carefully maintained walls. Allowing them close, but not too close. No, not very close at all.

She's the sort of woman who likes control. The sort of woman who always has an exit strategy.

She removes her glasses once beneath the awning and hands them to her assistant who is already trying to balance a clipboard, tablet, Starbucks coffee, and two purses. She doesn't seem to mind the added burden. Reminds Owen of a lap dog, always eager to please. He isn't sure who he feels sorrier for.

"Mr. Grady, I'm Claire Dearing, head of operations here at the park," she says in a clipped tone and offers her hand. It's pale, slim, and very soft looking. The kind of hand that isn't used to hard labor. She isn't wearing a wedding band and he hates that his stomach flutters a little.

Her eyes are the sort of blue you don't forget and as much as he already half hates her -who the hell wears a skirt and heels to a secluded raptor compound in the middle of the jungle?- he wants her pale legs wrapped around his hips even more. It's a complicated emotion and he doesn't like complicated.

He works damn hard toward simple, unattached, and low maintenance. Her manicure probably costs more than his entire outfit. Claire doesn't seem like the kind of person who appreciates the simpler things in life; used to moving fast and not looking at her surroundings while she does it.

Owen pushes himself off the wall of the storage shed and takes her hand firmly in his, pleased by the grimace that briefly crosses her pretty face. His hands are sweaty, covered in a few layers of muck with dirt under his nails. It had been a busy morning and he probably reeks of sweat, shit, and fresh meat.

"Owen," he says with a grin that feels almost predatory on his face. "Call me Owen."

* * *

He asks her to dinner on their second meeting a few months later and she surprises him by agreeing. It leaves him momentarily speechless, but Claire doesn't seem to mind.

He's seen her a few times from a distance. Walking fast in those damn heels, cellphone plastered to her ear with a gaggle of lapdogs in designer suits and dresses trailing along, hanging on her every word. He isn't sure what possesses him to blurt out the invitation as the elevator doors close them in, but the words are out there, hanging between them before he can snatch them back.

"I'll meet you in the back lobby at seven, I'll ensure that you have access." Her tone is all disinterested practicality but her eyes tell a different story.

He reads a nervous sort of fear there, fear mixed with something like excitement. Like maybe he's a wild animal that she wants to understand better. Another _attraction_ to capture and examine, this time up close and personal.

Owen isn't sure he minds.

It makes his blood run hot and he has to stuff his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out for her. To keep from digging his fingers into the soft flesh of her arms and devouring the perfectly made up pout of her lips. To keep from dirtying her spotless dress with the grease on his hands that he can never quite clean off.

His eyes zero in on her pulse point as she tells him not to be late and he thinks that maybe he's been spending too much time with The Pack. Barry has been saying it for months of course: that he needs to socialize himself from time to time, and not just his baby raptors. Owen is starting to agree, because he wouldn't mind taking a bite of Claire Dearing.

* * *

The date is a disaster from the beginning.

He's not the sort for self-sabotage, especially when it comes to good-looking women, but when he arrives to pick Claire up and she looks as though she's ready for another business meeting in an immaculate skirt and jacket combo, he can't quite bring himself to tear her down.

He'd had it all planned out, too.

How he would woo her, charm her, fuck her, and then quietly slip away again like a raptor after a clean kill. A sort of personal victory to congratulate himself with when memories of the war or the general shittiness of his youth got to be too much. An angel he managed to bring down to the muck and grime he'd so often called home.

But looking at her now he sees how fragile she truly is. How her walls aren't made of marble and steel, but of thin glass edged in silver. Pretty and nice to look at, but delicate to the trained eye. He thinks that maybe he could break her with a single touch if he pressed in the right place.

Her smile is controlled, contained, but there is hope in her eyes even as she gives his outfit a disparaging look over. He realizes that maybe there is more to her than he'd thought and that maybe finding out just how much he'd missed wouldn't be such a good idea. For either of them.

The ridiculous itinerary she insists upon moments later makes the sabotage easier, but, if he's being honest with himself, it's actually kind of cute. He finds that he kind of admires her; her success, her cool collection -he just wishes that she'd allow herself to be human for a second. To let go of whatever insecurities force her to pretend that her job is little more than moving inanimate objects around a chess board. He thinks that maybe she's afraid to let go, to be whom she is under the makeup and expensive clothes. He wonders if maybe they have more in common than he thought. He thinks maybe he could find that woman, the real one that shines behind her eyes, but he's afraid that he might find something he wants to hold on to.

He spends the entire evening convincing them both that they would never work even as he finds himself drawn in more and more. The way she purses her lips when she's annoyed, the flash of sarcasm and wit that bites at the end of her words, the natural intelligence and drive that shines through everything she does. It's enough to make him want to know more.

He buys them shots of tequila, which she refuses, and he takes both to numb the strange feelings of devotion rising in his throat. He doesn't even like tequila, stuff gives him a hell of a fucking hang over. He thinks the pain will serve as a reminder of what happens when you aim too high.

By the end of the night he's alone in the sticky darkness of his bungalow, cicadas buzzing like a rising typhoon outside his window. He replays the backward glance, filled with disappointment and a little bit of hurt swimming in Georgia summer eyes, and wonders just who was hunting who.

* * *

He and Barry are late to the meeting and they stand in the far back of a large circular room. No one seems to notice their arrival.

Simon Masrani, the park owner, is speaking at the podium. His accent is soft and pleasant as he rambles on about the park's 'moral mission' as though anyone actually buys that particular load of bullshit.

Money, money, money. That's all it has ever been about. All it will ever be about. Whatever vision had brought the dead back to life had long been lost in a river of cash flow. Capitalism, baby.

Not that Owen minds much. Training raptors is pretty badass as far as career paths go, even if he's well aware that he's just another pawn in a political fiasco that's bound to implode in all their faces. Playing God had never turned out so well for the players involved. He just hopes he can get clear of the blast in time.

His eyes zero in on the red-head in heels behind Simon and he feels a clench low in his belly. He can't take his eyes off her -the way she moves, or the way she doesn't move, really. A pretty statue, afraid to draw the attention of a movement seeking predator. Eventually the pressure of his stare draws a glance, just the delicate upward flip of long lashes, but it's enough to send a jolt through him, like one of their taser guns just brushing across his skin. He'd done it once, by accident, and his heart had raced for what felt like hours afterwards.

She looks quickly away but even from the distance he can see her lips purse and her cheeks flush.

Barry nudges him and rolls his eyes with a loud snort that draws the stares of those nearest to them. Owen smiles, even as his mind churns.

* * *

She ends up outside his bungalow a few months later and he's almost not surprised. Almost. It's well past sundown and she looks furious. The moonlight hits her frizzing hair and the curve of her cheek and she's beautiful.

"How dare you speak to Mr. Wu the way you did, do you have any idea how important he is-"

Owen leans against the door frame. "Want a beer?"

"He's calling for your head and I'm ready to give- excuse me?" She's flustered and sweat is condensing in the valley of her breasts. He'd like to follow the trail of one gleaming drop with his tongue as it disappears beneath another silk shirt. He wets his lips and her eyes follow the movement.

"A beer," he tilts the one in his hand toward her, "would you like one?"

She turns up her nose and he wishes he didn't find it charming. "I'll pass. I'm not here to exchange pleasantries, Mr. Grady-"

"What are you here for then, _Claire_ ," he asks and his voice has taken on a deeper quality of its own accord. She bites her lower lip and he squeezes the neck of his beer, head buzzing a bit from the four he's already had and yes, he can admit that her nearness is another factor.

"To discuss business of course," she insists, but her voice wavers and her eyes dip for a moment to his chest where a fine layer of sweat has molded the old t-shirt to his body. The pulse in her neck quickens and he wishes he didn't notice. It's not fair that he notices.

"At my home in the middle of the night?"

"You nearly cost us our most important geneticist!"

"The dude is a mad scientist fucking with shit he shouldn't," Owen snaps before he can think better of it.

"Apparently your years in the Navy taught you a lot about genetics." She rolls her eyes and he takes a step toward her. She doesn't back down, he didn't think she would. She's a few inches shorter then him, even in heels, and she smells like something he'd like to eat.

"It taught me not to fuck with things out of my control and that people like Dr. Wuu care more about what they can do and less about if it's the right thing to do."

Claire scoffs. "You sound like Dr. Grant; prattling on about how we're playing God-"

"Aren't you," he demands, "aren't you toying with things beyond comprehension to fill a few pockets and boost a few bloated egos?"

"Just because _you_ don't comprehend something, Mr. Grady, doesn't make it incompressible," she says and he realizes how close they are. He can feel each exhale across his lips, cool and faintly minty. Claire doesn't seem to notice the proximity, and he's fascinated, watching as her control slips by degrees.

"We brought you here to work with the raptors, to _control_ them-"

"You brought me here to test their intelligence as part of a branch out division with the military," he half yells, "Raptors are wild, highly dangerous animals, _Claire_ , they can't be controlled. They can be taught, encouraged, and better understood, but they aren't dogs who will roll over for a Scooby Snack."

Their noses brush as he speaks and he sees the exact moment she realizes how close they are. Her eyes darken and her lips part a little, their chests brush with every inhale.

He's pissed and flustered and a little drunk and he really wants to kiss her.

God, he wants to kiss her until he can't breathe or think or feel anything anymore, until he can exercise whatever demons she's summoned inside him. He wants to suck on the sweaty spot where her shoulder and neck meet and draw blood to the surface of her lily white skin. He wants to make her moan, to see if she'll still call him _Mr. Grady_ when he shoves his cock inside her and tugs on her hair.

For a moment he sees that she wants it to, wants him, but then she shuts herself up like the heavy steel doors of an enclosure. Impenetrable. Inescapable. She takes a wobbly step back and her eyes are cold and dismissive.

"You will treat Mr. Wu with respect, Mr. Grady, or you will be let go. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," he says, and goes back inside, "I sure do understand." He shuts the door and pretends not to notice the familiar, yet bizarre look of disappointment in her eyes.

He presses his forehead against the door and listens to the click-clack of her heels down the steps, and the rumble of her car starting, then the crunch of her tires as she speeds away. He finishes his beer and goes to bed with a hard-on he refuses to touch.

* * *

The Raptors grow fast.

They're taller than him in less than a year, and smarter than most people he knows. Blue is the most difficult of the four to work with, but he loves her for it. He tries not make any parallels between the scaly creature and a certain spirited red-head, but he doesn't quite succeed. They both like to be in control and neither are easily tamed or led. He realizes, over time, that he doesn't want Blue (Claire) to be either.

Charlie listens the best. In truth, she's a complete glutton and would do just about anything for food. She's sweet -well, as sweet as a prehistoric predator can be. Echo is more reluctant but very mild mannered, intelligent as all hell –they all are- but listens better than Blue or Delta. Delta likes to occasionally vie for Blue's beta position, making her somewhat unpredictable, but for the most part submissive. He's known since they were barely more than screeching lizards that it would ultimately be Blue he'd have to win over to really have the pack.

Each day is its own sort of struggle. Most of the time he feels like he's taking two steps forward and three or four back. But he's making progress. God damnit, he's making progress. The first time he gets all four Raptors to stop at his whistle _mid hunt_ he thinks he understands why parents get all emotional over stupid shit like spelling tests. If Barry sees the excess moisture in his eyes, he knows better than to comment on it.

He never quite allows himself to fall for the Raptors, never quite allows himself to believe they're his. Only a fool would believe that such a creature could ever fully be controlled or owned or manipulated. They trust him. They tolerate him. They consider him something of a friend, but certainly not beyond reproach (or eating) and he never allows himself to grow complacent.

"Don't ever turn you back on the cage, kid," he tells the new intern a few days before all hell breaks loose. The kid nods, eyes as wide as sauces, as he watches the Raptors gather for their morning feeding.

What he's really saying, though, is - _never forget that these are wild, dangerous animals who would eat you without a second thought._ It's something he tries to remind himself of often. He's their meal ticket, nothing more.

He watches Blue tear into her breakfast and looks away. For some reason, the carnage bothers him today.

* * *

When the biologically engineered monster stomps away, the earth thundering beneath Owen, he can't make himself move for several long minutes. He's not entirely sure he didn't piss himself but he's so covered in oil that it doesn't matter.

God, he's never been so terrified in his entire life. His guts feel like liquid. He draws in several rattling breaths and forces himself to roll out from under the truck.

"Fuck," he says and lurches away from a severed arm, finger tips inches from his face. They seem to be stretched out toward him, pleading and accusatory all at once. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, seeing the terrified, tear streaked face of the security guard before he was enveloped in teeth.

 _Fucker shouldn't have opened the door_.

Owen can't be too judgmental because it's the only reason he's alive, but it was a damn stupid thing to do. He tries not to think how many other people might die before they can either kill the thing or subdue it. He can still smell the stink of blood and death inches from him and he nearly vomits before he forces himself to pull it together.

He has to get out of here.

On legs that don't seem too eager to support him, he stumbles toward the control deck of the paddock. He can hear screams in the woods around the enclosure and knows there's a pretty fair chance the monster will be back.

He doesn't have access to the control deck and he leans against the red blinking door for several precious moments, trying to formulate a plan through the residual terror. There's a Jeep nearby, a rifle poking out from the back seat, he can see the keys are still in the ignition.

"That'll do," he says out loud and hops in.

He isn't the sort of man to pray, he's actually pretty sure that he doesn't believe in God, but he sends out a silent plea to whatever or whoever might be listening that Claire is well out of the monster's way.

* * *

Owen is so angry he's shaking.

He wants to throttle her. Then kiss her. Then maybe throttle her some more. How could anyone be so dense- so completely irrational and oblivious? It isn't just her, it's the whole damn room full of people who think something bigger than a three story building can be hunted down and subdued. That creating some freak of nature was a good fucking idea.

The bitch of a dinosaur they brewed up is clearly very smart. It reminds him of someone, of-

"No, they wouldn't," he says, stopping in the middle of the street, a chill creeping down his spine, "they're not that stupid."

"Owen!" someone cries over the noise of the tourists and pop music leaking from the stores and he knows who it is before he turns around. Her eyes are wide with fright as she shoves her way to him. He's never seen her so undone, so frantic, it makes him forget, for a moment, how beyond angry he is with her.

"Please," she begs, "Please, I need your help."

He wants to say no. He should, but he can't. Not to her.

* * *

He can pinpoint the exact moment he realizes he'd run through hell for her. That's probably exactly what he's going to have to do for her if they want to get out of this alive, but that's not really the point. The point is, that he was wrong. He thought he had her all figured out and she's done nothing but surprise him since day one.

Despite the insanity of their situation and everything they stand to lose, he watches the tears gleam on her face as she presses a hand on the dying Diplodocus face and knows he's a goner. Her glass walls have shattered but they weren't lined in silver, they were threaded with steel. He wanted a human moment, to see the ice around her heart thaw, and here it is, tragic and lovely. He thinks maybe he understands why it was easier for her to see the dinosaurs as _attractions_ and the park attendants as numbers on the screen

If they manage to survive this, he isn't going to let her go.

* * *

She's covered in mud, dirt, slime, and dino shit and he's never found her more beautiful. Doesn't hurt that they only narrowly managed to avoid being eaten alive and his testosterone is thundering at dangerous levels. After driving like a mad man for several miles he'd pulled over so they could take a moment to collect themselves, to try to figure out how to use their brains again, and if he's being honest, he'd needed a few minutes to steady himself. That had been fucking close. _Really_ fucking close.

They're both breathing hard, like they were running the last few miles rather than driving them. Humidity and sweat is slick across his entire body as he tries to come up with a game plan. Something that makes any sense at all.

"We-" Claire gasps, her pale face gaining some of its color back as she leans against the mud splattered jeep. "We need to get back to the control room." There's a splash of mud on her cheek and he resists the urge to wipe it off.

"What are you going to do?" he asks, hoping beyond hope that she has a plan because he's running into sixty foot concrete walls in his brain.

She swallows thickly and pushes the sweaty fringe of her bangs out of her eyes. Her hair has started to frizz and curl and he likes it. He likes it a lot.

"We're going to try to save as many people as we can. We have a few bunkers, they should hold everyone. And then we try to kill the bitch." Owen has never heard Claire curse before and it grabs his attention.

"Full evacuation?"

"Full evacuation," she says with a shaky nod.

He grunts and turns to pull himself into the Jeep. She grips his arm hard enough that it actually hurts.

"Owen," she says, lips trembling, "I'm sorry, so, so, sorry."

He wants to tell her it will be okay, that they will make it out of this, but he also doesn't want to lie to her. He wants to tell her it isn't her fault, and maybe it isn't, but some of it probably is. His too. All of them. Everyone who believed they could control nature and bend it to their will.

He grips her shoulder. "Hold it together, okay? We need to get back and come up with a plan or a lot of people are going to die. You with me?"

She takes a steadying breath and releases her grip on his arm by degrees. The blood rushes back to his fingers and they ache.

"Yeah," she says, "I'm with you."

He wants to kiss her but doesn't. They don't have time for distractions. He shakes his head as he watches Claire climb into the passenger seat, heels still firmly on her feet. He's not sure if he's disgusted or impressed.

* * *

The park is in chaos as they shove their way through a sea of limbs and madness. Dark shadows press overhead and his skin crawls with barely suppressed terror. They run into a group of park rangers, grim understanding in all their eyes as they fall in line. They give him deference and he doesn't question it. He tries not to entertain the idea of the Raptors at his back and flank, covering him and following his commands, because that's insanity and he knows it -no matter what Hoskins says.

They set up a point to stand their ground in the middle of the main drag and Owen figures it's as good as any. He tries not to be distracted by the screaming as he takes a few shots; women, kids, men –they all blend into a morbid soundtrack.

Claire stands on an overturned cart like a madwoman and he does his best to keep the various killers in the sky from snatching her up. She doesn't make it easy as she whirls in search of her missing nephews, like she's hardly aware of what's happening around them.

A giant pterodactyl levels off and makes a sweep of the pathway in front of them. People fall before it like multi colored dominos and dread pools in his belly. The thing is fucking huge. Before he can make up his mind to do anything, like tackle Claire to the ground and pray to God the thing doesn't eviscerate them, talons grip him from him behind and push him forward.

Its several long, heart stopping minutes of trying to keep the fucking thing from tearing out his throat before it's knocked loose. He blinks owlishly as Claire fires a few quick rounds into the tiny devil.

She offers her hand and he takes it.

 _Fuck it_.

He takes the gun from her and wraps a hand around her hip, tugging her forward. Her lips are chapped and her face sweaty, she smells like fear and crushed leaves and he molds his mouth to hers.

He fucking refuses to die without kissing her. Maybe it's the heat of the moment, the looming promise of certain death, or maybe he's just running out of valid excuses not to.

It takes her a moment to respond but then she's kissing him back, pressing a feverish hand to the side of his face. She makes a small sound, almost like a whimper and it's a desperate plea that vibrates through him.

He's the one that pulls away and her eyes are wide, confused, and tumultuous. Before he can think of anything to say, to _do_ , she's turned from him and lets out a stuttering cry. She goes racing across the street toward two boys, one a teenager the other well on his way, and reality returns.

He can feel the imprint of her lips on his as he hurries after her, promising himself that their first kiss won't be their last.

* * *

Owen tries not to feel hopeless, but a hollow point in his chest is expanding as Charlie's death runs through his mind on repeat. His hands are shaking and he grips the handle bars of his motorcycle tighter, trying to pull his shit back together.

He shouldn't feel like he does. Feel like he's just lost some vital piece of himself. Charlie tore several of Hoskins men to shreds and would have continued to so. Maybe even have gotten to Claire and the boys, maybe reached the tourists in their sealed bunkers… but fuck it all, he feels his eyes prick and his heart ache. If tears fall, their whisked away by the tepid night as it rushes past. He looks over his shoulder as Claire thunders forward next to him in the large tactical truck. She's dirty and bloodied and terror flickers in her eyes but she drives steadily forward. The road behind the truck is devoid of life, raptor or otherwise, but he has a sense that they're tracking them, biding their time.

Owen knew it wouldn't work. He knew it was suicidal to use the Raptors, but even so… even so, for a few seconds, a few stupid moments, he'd believed they were a team, a true pack. That they would listen to him and that maybe, just maybe, they're insane plan might just work.

He should have known better. And now Charlie is dead and the others are under the command of Satan incarnate and there isn't a damn thing he can do now but run.

"God damn it," he mutters as he kicks the bike into high gear. "God damn it."

* * *

Owen watches Claire run toward them and feels like everything has slowed, condensed until even the air is heavy and charged. His heart falls somewhere into the vicinity of his bowels as understanding dawns. The flare in her hand is bright, blinding almost, as the terror behind her stomps after, a backdrop of scales and teeth. She's still wearing her heels and it's the craziest, stupidest, bravest thing he's ever seen.

Time starts to sputter back into place as she nears them, tossing the flare at the biological monstrosity as the thing turns to see what all the noise is about. The T-Rex is quick to forget about the human woman in the face of something larger, toothier, and meaner. He's momentarily stunned as the two monsters face off in what has to be the most insane thing he's seen all day which is saying a hell of a lot.

But then one of the kids, the younger one, is gripping his arm and his motor skills reorient themselves. In what might have been minutes, hours, or years, he and the two kids manage to maneuver their way through the carnage as buildings crumble around them and the world as they know it shatters into pieces.

Eventually they manage to reach Claire near the doors of the main building and she clutches at her youngest nephew and her heart is shining in her eyes. Owen fumbles up behind her, his useless rifle in hand and watches as the T-Rex goes down, the force of its fall nearly toppling him off the steps. He curses under his breath, out of ammo, strength, and plans.

He hears Blue chirp a minute before she launches herself at the massive dinosaur, and his breath catches. He'd thought she was dead. He was sure they were all dead.

"We have to move," he tells them and tugs the older kid to his feet. "We have to get the fuck out of here."

They head toward the bunkers but their progress is slow. They turn at the corner of the main street and watch as the massive sea monster grabs hold of the Indominus Rex and drags it down into the depths, pretty much replacing the earlier show down by sheer improbability and insanity. Despite the obvious and immediate danger, their all momentarily rooted to the spot. Fortunately, the T-Rex doesn't stick around long, wounded and tired, and stomps off toward the jungles above the nearby ranger tower. They're damn lucky.

Blue approaches and Claire and the kids shrink back. Owen takes a step forward as the Raptor cocks her head, chirping low in her throat. He swallows against a hard lump in his throat as he realizes, belatedly, that they were always his, and he was always theirs. He'll miss the vicious things and wonders what might have been, if their little world had managed to hang on just a little bit longer. What they might have accomplished together. None if it matters now, but the twinge of regret is there.

Owen takes a breath and nods his head, a dismissal, maybe an acknowledgement, he isn't sure, but Blue blinks at him a moment longer before taking off into the night.

He knows he'll never see her again.

* * *

They don't make if far beyond the hanger before they're tearing at each other's clothes. It isn't romantic or meaningful or even terribly intimate, but it's what they both need. He'll take his time later. Take his sweet, careful time mapping the planes of her pale body with his hands and mouth and tongue in the comfort of some bed somewhere, but right now they both need the same reassurance.

They both need to feel alive. Connected. Safe.

Owen presses her against the aluminum grating in the hot darkness. He tugs her shirt down and exposes a dirt streaked breast, the nipple already hard against the calloused palm of his hand. Her skirt is torn and filthy and falls easily away. He doesn't bother to remove her sweat soaked panties and merely pushes them aside as she fumbles with his pants, eventually tugging him free. She's hot and wet and he thinks it might be the only thing that matters in the whole world.

He grunts and bites his lip to suppress a strange sob as her hand cups the pulsing length of him. She strokes and squeezes hard, almost too hard, but it's perfect and real. Their kiss is all teeth and tongue as she wraps a leg around him and he lifts, caging her between him and hot metal. Between one breath and the next he's inside her and he can't tell if she crying or moaning or both. He rests his head in the crook of her neck and feels completely unraveled and undone.

"Don't leave," she rasps against his ear as he pumps in and out of her, desperate and rough. "Don't leave."

"I won't," he says as he bites down on the skin below her collar bone hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to almost draw blood. He doesn't make promises, doesn't know if he wants to not, if that's what either of them need. But right now she's the realist, steadiest thing in his life and he thinks they're going to need each other in the months and years to come as they wade through the aftermath of the blow out.

She shudders against him, tightening her legs and pressing the sharp heels of her shoes into his back, pulling on his hair to draw his lips back to hers. He can't think or speak after that, as she begins to rock her hips into his, but somehow they don't seem to need words.

When they return to the kids and her sister a little while later the mark is vivid and clear above the cut of her shirt. Her sister raises an eyebrow and Claire flushes a little but lifts her chin, taking his hand in hers. He squeezes her fingers lightly.

"Karen, this is Owen."

He extends a 's blood on it. "Nice to meet you," he says.

Karen gives him half a smile and takes his hand firmly in hers and Owen thinks maybe things might actually be alright again, someday.


End file.
